In Which V Gets Bored
by Schemergirl
Summary: My spin on how one of the greatest bits of script ever was conceived... Chapter 3 up: witness how V spends his Halloween! Rated T for silliness.
1. Vogue

Disclaimer: I don't own V for Vendetta. Unfortunately. Or Vogue, for that matter. Or Tampax.

A/N: I saw the movie and this idea somehow got into my mind… I have no clue from where.

**In Which V Gets Bored**

It was official. V was bored. Yes, bored in the Shadow Gallery, one of the most interesting places on Earth.

He'd tried _everything_. He wasn't in the mood for music; he didn't want to risk a fatality by opening the closet which contained some old(er) books, and the Old Bailey explosion was already planned out, and the bombs ready. Even fencing didn't appeal to him at that moment. So he made himself a tea and sat on the couch. Looking at the carpet, he saw a copy of Vogue.

_What's that doing there?_

Then he remembered: he had 'acquired' it from one of Sutler's delivery trucks. Hoping it belonged to a female living in close proximity with Sutler and not Sutler himself, he set his cup of tea aside and took the magazine.

_Let's see what pure drivel the fairer sex enjoy._

Telling himself that this was an experiment and nothing more- men didn't read Vogue, not even sword-wielding, ass-kicking, politically-correct terrorists!- he opened the magazine on a random page. V blinked multiple times at the title of the article: _'_Why you aren't getting orgasms: your fault or his?_'_

_Good Lord._

He rapidly closed the magazine, and then briefly wondered whether to read the article… for future reference, of course. Not that the situation was likely, but still…

The highly articulate V found that he had talked himself into a corner. He most certainly _will not _be reading _that_. He opened the magazine again, it was a clothes catalogue. Taking into account the fact that it was women's clothes, he took a look anyway. He had to admit to himself that some of these clothes were quite nice… he made a mental note to get a brown dress he saw in the catalogue.

For _Valerie, _of course.

He was about to put the magazine away when he spotted a page with the title: 'What Makes You _You_?'

That got his interest. He was getting worried that all women cared about was sex and clothes. Apparently what they _really _cared about was the following, in this order: _themselves, _sex, and clothes.

He read the article: 'Everyone is unique, and skilled to a certain degree, some more than others'. _Thank you, ladies. _'If you are in need of a self-esteem boost, try some of the following exercises.'

_This couldn't hurt. It isn't as if I have anything else to do._

'One,' the article said, 'Write down your birth date to find out your birth number, and see if it correctly analyses your personality!'

V skipped that one. He didn't believe in coincidences of any kind, after all. Including such nonsense.

_Birth numbers? Bah._

'Two. Write all of your skills in this column, and find out what they say about you in the opposite page!'

He skipped that one too. How do you analyze a person through their skills? What's more, the column was preposterously small! Only twenty-five lines!

_They need the spare space for advertisements, I guess._

He cringed at the advertisement dividing the article: Tampax. He hurriedly turned the page.

'Three: Use the space below to write a description of yourself to read whenever you're upset, to remind yourself how special you are!'

_Hmmm, could have fun with that one…_

_VvVvVvVvV_

Many, many hours and pieces of paper later, V looked down at his work with pride. It had taken him ages, and some parts had gotten him rather frustrated, but there it was in its full glory:

'Voilá! In view, a humble vagabond virginal vaudevillian veteran, cast vicariously as both victim and villain by the voyeurisms vicissitudes of fate. This verucca visage, no mere veneer of vanity, is the variegation vestige of the vox populi, now vacant, vintage vanished. However, this valorous visitation of a by-gone vernacular vexation, stands vertical vivified, and has vowed to vide vanquish these venereal venal and virulent ventriloquists vermin van guarding vino vice and vulgarizing vouchsafing the violently vigilant and virtuous vicious and voracious violation of vulv –(_V, don't even go there) _volition. The only verdict is Valium Viagra vengeance, a vineyard vendetta, held as a votive in vain not in vain, for the value and villainy veracity of such shall one day vindicate the vicious and voracious vigilant and virtuous. Verily, this vichyssoise of verbiage veers most vindictively virulently verbose, so let me simply add that it's my very good honour to meet you and you may call me Bond. _James _Bond. V.'

The Vogue lay, forgotten, on the floor amid a sea of paper. Satisfied, V went to the kitchen to make himself something to eat. The thought of memorizing his 'speech' came to mind.

_Maybe later._

A/N: Please review! I'll give you a cookie if you do! Oh, and… I'm not woman-bashing in this (I am one!), I'm just assuming what V would think about us if he was exposed to the females I know… Oh, and in the 'original copy' of the V speech above, pretend that every 'wrong' V word has a strikeout through it, cos itsomehow failed to make it show up…


	2. The Perils of Food 'Shopping'

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

A/N: Decided to continue this. Thanks to reviewers, and thanks to Lady Shadiait and The Red X for ideas and inspiration. This was written under the influence of the dreaded Bloody Mary and an espresso or five, so be warned…

**The Perils of Food 'Shopping'**

V's daily schedule all depended on either his plans or his whims. Since all his plans were ready (the Old Bailey had a week left to 'live'), V was free to the vicissitudes of fate. So to speak. So imagine his surprise when he opened the fridge to find that _he had run out of milk. _Of course that ruined the whole patriotic-British-tea thing, so there was only one thing to do.

This was to beat the crap out of any unfortunate antique suits of armour that happened to be stupid enough to be standing around at the time.

When he had released all his pent-up rage to find that he'd run out of bread too, he decided on a more… _practical _approach.

_Time to go shopping._

VvVvVvVvV

The warehouse was large and somewhat foreboding, something it was very proud of. Wouldn't you be, if you were just a building made out of scrap metal that housed a very large supply of non-rationed food, illegal or otherwise? V certainly thought so.

_If only buildings could talk._

Fortunately, before V could classify himself as being legally mad, he stopped the track of thought and concentrated on what he was doing, which was to look left and right before crossing the road, and somehow managing to look like a tourist in the process. It wasn't _his _fault that the British drove on the wrong side of the road… the wrong side in his eyes, being the right side in everyone else's.

So far, so good.

_Next procedure: any Fingermen around? No. Why are they called Fingermen? Why not London Police? Why not Sutler's Secret Army?_

Because, V, then they wouldn't be so secret, would they now?

Reaching the warehouse, he looked around again. Nothing. He scaled the smooth wall of the warehouse, something only V can do because of his fancy superpowers. They were called superpowers since V had gotten his gloves on a copy of Spiderman, banned for being heretic to the beliefs of spiders… sometimes V wondered who in the government made the excuses, and he often wondered if they were crazy, because they sure weren't prime examples of sanity like _he _was.

V, instantly getting his balance on the roof, looked over the edge. He was something like fifteen feet away from the ground, a height that would make anyone but him slightly dizzy if they were standing on a slippery roof. He got out a saw and started cutting a hole to jump into the warehouse through. Sure, it wasn't practical, it wasn't subtle, but he saw it in a gangster movie and thought it was cool, so screw it.

Landing without any broken bones (or masks), he looked around once more and walked a few steps, stealthily of course. He couldn't get very far because his mask was two inches away from a Fingerman's face.

_Oh, my._

The Fingerman blinked. V stared.

"Let's get on with it, then," V said in his cool way before killing the man with a move that he stole from one of the DVD's in his Steven Seagal collection.

"He wasn't much fun…"

V turned around, just to see five more Fingermen. Five Fingermen with Uzis.

_Oh, bugger._

"_OPEN FIIIIIIRE!" _The man in the middle shouted before one of V's throwing knives found itself comfortably lodged in his throat.

V dodged every bullet.

The other men stopped, looked at the two fallen Fingermen. It had only just registered.

"Oh shit! This one's good!"

"Yes I am, ol' chap."

The words had barely left V's mask and two more Fingermen were on the floor.

_They make them too slow these days._

The remaining two were left speechless, and after a moment opened fire. V sighed, jumped off the wall in true Matrix style, kicked one to the ground, ducked, and beheaded the last Fingerman left standing with a particularly well-aimed throw.

The Fingerman pinned down under V's foot whimpered.

"Please, have mercy…."

V perked up at this.

"Merci? You speak French? Je voudrais un peu lait, s'il vous plait!"

"What?"

V got annoyed at this. Incompetent service drove him (further) to the brink of insanity.

So he killed him.

Finally being able to have a look around the warehouse, he exhaled. Trying to remember moves from so many movies was tiring. V considered himself as someone who wasn't influenced by movies at all. Uh-uh. Not him.

_Damnit, stop laughing at me! _He 'told' his 'inner voice'. V considered himself perfectly sane, too.

However, all notions of supposed sanity vanished when he realised what warehouse he was in. All he'd wanted was some nice, semi-skimmed, homogenized milk and some whole-grain bread and possibly pasta… but alas, this was not so.

"NOOOOOOOO!"

He grabbed a passing Fingerman and told him, in true V style:

"_Life is but a walking shadow, a poor player who struts and frets his hour upon the stage and is then heard no more. It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing,"_ as an afterthought, he added, "Except the joys of semi-skimmed milk."

"Please kill me."

V did so, with gusto, because the reason of his madness was due to the fear and bane of every grown man's intellect and ego…

He was in the warehouse full of 'feminine products'.

A/N: Well, that turned out… meh. Review and give me your two cents/pennies/yen. The speech in italics is from Macbeth. V likes Macbeth, and he is very over-dramatic, so it seemed very appropriate.


	3. All the World's a Stage

Disclaimer: Don't own anything except the insane plot.

A/N: Thank you for your lovely reviews, they make me uber-happy! Warning: Lot's of movie references, because V's such a movie fan. Like me. ;D

**All the World's a Stage**

And so the countdown begins: five days to the explosion of the Old Bailey. V was celebrating his excitement for the occasion in the only way he knew how… that being, of course, walking around in costume. It wasn't his ugly ol'fogey Rookwood costume, and it wasn't his Valerie get-up, which was actually disturbingly convincing. Oh, no, this time was different… because tonight was All Hallow's Eve! V considered it a miracle that it wasn't banned… but apparently, Sutler liked dressing up.

V was walking the London streets as Arnold Schwarzenegger in The Terminator. Dark sunglasses hid the eye-holes in the mask and, in V's opinion, served to make him look even cooler. An objective passer-by, however, would see it differently. For example, a pre-pubescent Zorro asked a forty-year old Mulan the following:

"Mommy, is that man blind?"

Luckily for the boy, V didn't hear. It wouldn't have mattered anyway, because The Terminator only carries guns. While V is certainly in prowess with the use of knives…well… my granny is a better shot with a gun than him.

V paused, and decided to give Sutler a call, _partly_ because he wanted to mess with him, but mainly because he needed to practice his Swedish accent. He walked to a dark street corner and took out his flashy Nokia 8310, which was out of date by twenty or so years, but he didn't care because it was so pretty- and besides, why would the government want to trace such an old line? V dialled Sutler's number, which he'd gotten from one of the pretty, yet scantily clad, ladies who he had seen coming out of the High Chancellor's house one night. Wandering if Sutler's significant other (if such existed) minded, he waited: one ring, two rings, four, five…

"Hello? Who is this?" came the voice of the dictator, sorry, _High Chancellor._

"Hello? Is this the Prime Minister?" V said in an accent that sounded less Swedish and more like someone British who is completely infatuated with someone.

"I am _not _Prime Minister! I am High Chancellor! Oh, I know who you are…Gloria; I thought you would never call… You can call me Daddy… "

"Do I sound like someone with two X chromosomes?" V asked, hurt, and a bit disturbed.

"A bit. Yes."

"…"

"Who are you?"

"I'm the only gay in the village!" V was giggling by now.

_Oh, the joys of television twenty years ago… _

"…and your point is? Because if you want to go out with me, I'm taken… but we can always, you know, keep it secret…"

V didn't like the way this conversation was going. The one time he'd had phone sex, it was a month ago, with a woman, and even then she'd hung up on him after warning him three times to stop quoting Shakespeare.

"Yeh, I know. But…um… no thank you," he decided. "But there is something you should know about me…"

"Yes?"

"I see dead people."

"…"

"…"

"…"

"…"

"Oh, I see. Yes… how did you get my number again?"

"From Gloria. I'm bisexual," V was starting to get really entertained now, "No, wait, I'm asexual. So, goodbye… I'll be back."

"No, wait, I was just getting to know you—"

V hung up, disturbed, but happy. He could stop using the Swedish accent now- it was hurting his throat.

He looked up to see a cute little boy with dark hair and big blue eyes staring at him. He stared back. There was something very, very, intimidating in that child's gaze. That something said, if you mess with me, I will get some supernatural force to kill you.

V gulped and kept on staring. It was just a child, for God's sake!

Then, a blonde woman who looked to be the child's caretaker came near them.

"Come along now, Damien. We have to go to see the Halloween play of Dr Faustus, remember?"

Damien gave a small, creepy, smile, nodded, and walked off hand in hand with the woman. Beneath his mask, V paled.

_Damien…? Faustus?_

He shook his head.

_What an imagination I have! All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players, so it's perfectly reasonable to meet someone who looks like they came off a movie set- especially tonight!_

Chanting the Shakespeare quote aloud to keep himself 'sane', V walked into an ally- and straight into a group of men who looked like they were impersonating D12. Unfortunately, they heard him quoting.

"Who you callin' a player, Schwarzy?" The tallest one asked and pulled out a handgun. His friends followed suit.

V knew a bad situation when he saw one.

"Nice costumes, my friends," V tried to make peace, raising his arms slightly. He wasn't intimidated- he was _way _more violent on a bad night than these men appeared to be- but he wanted to keep good appearances. No sense in getting his lovely blond wig dirty.

He pulled out one of his knives anyway- he never went without one, never mind if it didn't go with his costume...

"We ain't your friends! Put that little metal stick away!"

"Yeah, man, we're going to get medieval on yo' ass!" an Eminem look-alike added.

"Hey, that's from Pulp Fiction!" V the movie-lover pointed out.

"Yeah, it is. It's our favourite movie, in fact," the tallest man who had threatened him said sheepishly.

"Oh really? Remember the bit when…"

And so, V spent the night discussing Tarantino movies and playing poker with his new friends- overall, a nice night out in the ghetto.

A/N: OK, author rant goes here: had to put in D12 because I have a friend who is obsessed with them, had to put in Little Britain quotes because I am obsessed with that show, had to put in the Sixth Sense quote because I love the kid, and Damien from the Omen was there because the character has too much parody potential. And "All the world's a stage," etc is from "As you like it" by Will Shakespeare. Oh, for an added hilarity bonus, try imagining everything V said to Sutler in Schwarzenegger's voice- "I see dead people" XD

Anyway, I think this may be the last part in this series- I don't want it to become crap(per) or drawn out. So farewell, beloved readers!


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